In a mystery to be
by forthegenuine
Summary: "The victim was found dead in her home, with the doors locked from the inside, no visible signs of entry." Sherlock's ears perked at this. It was his birthday, after all. "Case was never solved."


**A/N** : Apologies to those of you, whose sensibilities I offend by recycling "The Speckled Band/Blonde" adventure from John's blog. Incidentally, John's blog already covered "The Six Thatchers," and yet the showrunners turned it into an episode, so *shrug*

Also, apparently, I'm incapable of just writing cute, fun birthday fics. Is this a function of getting older?

Anyhow, Happy 164th Birthday to Sherlock Holmes! Enjoy!

* * *

"and in a mystery to be  
(when time from time shall set us free)"  
––e.e. cummings

He woke up that morning, resolved in his decision not to make a Big Deal out of it. _Just another revolution of the planet around the sun_ , he thought to himself (since he now made room for that particular detail in his mental hard drive, seeing how knowledge of celestial movements came in handy on certain occasions).

Sherlock checked his mobile and found he got a text from John at 3:52 that morning, _HBD drinks later this week yeah?_ He surmised Rosie had still not gotten over her flu and replied, _Sure. Give my love to Rosie -SH_.

There was also one from Anderson late last night, that merely contained a red balloon and a cake, which he could only assume was meant as a greeting. He vaguely wondered at what point they became acquaintances on texting terms. He thought about deleting it at first, but typed _Thanks!_ instead. He deleted the exclamation mark before hitting send.

He ignored the feeling that niggled at his insides that he had no remaining new messages. (Not even a text from The Woman. It seemed that last year had really been the last.)

His parents sent him a card earlier in the week, enclosed with a gift card to Waitrose and a subtle––though "subtle" was a huge understatement––comment about his being "thin as a rake," the way parents never really outgrow the ability (or compulsion) to comment on their children's eating habits.

Even Mycroft sent him a bottle of 2001 Saint-Émilion, claiming someone had sent him an extra bottle.

Taking stock of his life so far, Sherlock would say, on balance, he had no major complaints. He had his health, his family and friends, his work––not necessarily always in that order, but still.

 _Still_ though, the past year made him realise that there was, indeed, something missing––a hollowed piece of himself that yearned to be filled. He thought that Sherrinford might have been the prime mover that irrevocably changed his life. But when the dust finally settled on the chaos his sister created, nothing changed much, really. He got cases, and he solved them. Every now and then, he would play godfather to Rosie or play duets with Eurus, but life went on as it always did.

And _her_? He told himself he would act when the time was right, but it never seemed to present itself. And so, time dragged on.

He buoyed himself through the holidays with minimal emotional devastation, and only once had to endure the same lecture from John about how "lucky you are" and about time being "gone before you know it." He tried very hard not to think of ponytails, jumpers, and for some reason, the color yellow.

Other than that, no complaints, whatsoever.

He checked his mobile again, but it remained stubbornly inactive.

Around lunchtime, he snuck into 221A to liberate some of Mrs. Hudson's Sunday roast, which he smelled her cooking on Friday, before she left on holiday with Mr. Chatterjee. He strongly suspected she might have set it aside for his benefit, as there was a note on the fridge, reminding him to put used dishes in the sink and to take the bins out.

He had just finished drying the plate he used when his phone buzzed in his trouser pocket. Something inside him jumped, and he did not even bother drying his hands on one of Mrs. Hudson's tea towels before pulling it out of his pocket to check the screen. He heaved a sigh full of dismay when he saw it was Lestrade. He read the text, supposed it was better than nothing, and agreed to meet him in half an hour.

The detective inspector was already there when he arrived. He looked around, perplexed that it didn't look like the usual crime scene he was accustomed to being received with. Lestrade was alone, nary a flashing light on his car nor caution tape, quarantining the scene of the crime. He pushed a thick file into Sherlock's hands, after a quick greeting.

"It's a cold case," he explained, as Sherlock flipped through the folder, perusing photos, reports, and interviews. "The victim––Julia Stoner––was found dead in her home, with the doors locked from the inside, no visible signs of entry." Sherlock's ears perked at this. It _was_ his birthday, after all. "Case was never solved."

He drew his magnifying glass from his pocket, and with a voice containing just a hint of delight underneath the surface, he asked, "Shall we?"

 _shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

A few hours later, Sherlock found himself in Scotland Yard.

Dr. Roy Lott threw him a decidedly murderous look, as he was held and dragged away by officers for processing. Sherlock could only grin satisfyingly to himself. He figured out that Lott was responsible for his step-daughter's murder by letting out the flat she lived in to her, while he slowly poisoned her over the inheritance of the family's large estate.

"Well done, you," said Lestrade, sidling up next to him, his duty of supervising transport of the suspect completed. "Not only did you solve the murder, you maybe also prevented one."

Sherlock cocked his head and looked at him curiously.

"Julia has a surviving twin sister." Lestrade beamed at him, and did nothing to stop himself from patting Sherlock on the back. "She might have been next, if it weren't for you. Really, you should be very proud."

"Yeah, well…" he trailed. He could feel his toes curling up inside his shoes. "Just doing my job… sort of."

"You should probably also tell Molly."

"Molly?" her name fell from his lips like a reflex. He blinked several times before he took in what Lestrade said next.

"Yeah, she was the one who convinced me to open up the case." When Sherlock didn't respond, he continued, changing the subject, "Oh, ah… they say it's your birthday… it's my birthday, too, yeah." He ended with a flourish of pointing his thumbs at himself, looking rather pleased.

"Who said? It is?"

"It's from a song," explained Lestrade, withering slightly. A blank stare. "The Beatles. John, Paul, Harrison, _Ringo_?" A furrowed brow. "Oh, go and see Molly."

It was the best idea he'd heard all day, Sherlock thought.

 _shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

He made his way to the lab with steps honed from muscle memory. He peaked through the narrow window of the lab door and when his eyes landed on her––ponytail, lab coat over a mustard yellow jumper––his heart turned over, just as it did every time he saw her. He entered.

"Sherlock. Hi. Happy birthday!" she exclaimed in quick succession. "What are you doing here?"

Instead of answering, he moved until he stood right in front of her. "You got me a case… for my birthday?" he asked, still not over the absurdity, and the sweetness, and the _Molly_ ness of the gesture.

"I _found_ you a case," she corrected. "Well, anyway, yeah… I mean… what do you get a man who has everything?" said Molly, a small laugh escaping. Though she meant it playfully, the rhetorical question gave him a little moment of pause. She must have sensed this, for her face fell just a fraction. "So you solved it, then?"

"Yes, and saved someone's life––well–– _you_ saved someone's life." He realised, as soon as he said it, he wasn't merely referring to Julia Stoner's twin.

She smiled at this. "Good," nodding to herself. "I'm glad."

He inched himself a little closer to her. His eyes swept over her features, and suddenly, it wasn't just another revolution of the Earth round the sun. Something came to him at that moment. "Newton's first law of motion," he blurted.

"What?"

A hush seemed to fall in the room, and all the lab equipment and computer monitors were mere relics of an age gone by. He continued slowly, deliberately delivering the words, plucking them from the recesses of his memory. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if reciting a benediction. "It states that an object continues in its state of rest, unless it is compelled to change that state of motion by forces impressed upon it."

"Okay." She exhaled the last syllable of the word.

He dipped his head slightly, peering into her eyes. "You're wrong, you know," he murmured. She looked up at him and blinked in recognition of the words, remembering the last time he said them to her, just as he remembered saying them. Though many years have passed since then, he felt just as helpless as he did. In many ways, in perhaps the most important way, he was even more so. "I don't have… everything."

Molly held his gaze. "You _do_ have something. You always have." She took a step until she was impossibly close to him. She put her hand on the back of his neck. His hands reached for her and drew her in. Their hearts each surged wildly, beat as one. He met her halfway, and their lips touched, explored, and seared. And it felt like, _finally_.

He smiled into her mouth out of sheer joy, and she responded in kind. Laughter rose from their mouths, as if they just shared a joke. Still holding her in his arms, he suddenly remembered something he needed to have. "Cake!" He looked down at her. "Would you––would you like to have some?"

"Yes," she grinned. "You can tell me about the case."

"Thank you," he said, pressing a light kiss on her lips to tide him over for the next several minutes. "For the weirdest gift anyone's ever given me."

"You're welcome," she replied, her face radiant with the sweetest smile. "Happy birthday, Sherlock."

 _ **end**_

* * *

Thanks oodles for reading. All your kudos and comments are greatly and deeply appreciated. Cheers! xo


End file.
